Oh My Sweet Carolina
by Jada115
Summary: Alan's bad day goes to worse when he is called away to help Miranda and her mother. BL characters belong to D.E.Kelley. Non-BL characters are my own creation. Romance. No Slash or Flash.
1. Chapter 1

Oh My Sweet Carolina

Chapter 1

Alan showed up at Miranda's door one Friday evening a few weeks after they had returned from their Paris trip. She answered the door in her yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair clipped up in a messy ponytail.

"Hey," she said brightly. "C'mon in."

He furrowed his brow. "You…have a black-eye."

She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Oh that! It's just from kick-boxing class."

Alan stepped inside and she placed a quick kiss on his lips. She ran her eyes over his blue sweater and khaki pants.

She stroked the sleeve. "Cashmere. Nice. Blue is a good color for you—brings out your eyes." She looked down at her own clothes. "Seems you've caught me cleaning house, so I'm ultra casual."

He ran his eyes over her while she moved to a sideboard. He liked her ultra casual look. He wondered if he would see it again and felt a little sad at the thought that he might not. Maybe he shouldn't tell her. He looked around the living room; it looked cozy, comfortable—plush red sofas against white walls, large pillows on the window seat. He swallowed hard, setting his jaw. He had to tell her; it wasn't something he could exactly keep secret. She was definitely going to find out when…

"Something to drink? I still haven't stocked your scotch, but I have a good brandy."

"That's fine," he said. He seemed distant, almost sad as he stared at a painting over the fireplace; it was abstract, various shades of blue and black with warped three dimensional cones and cylinders entwined and slithering across the canvas. It was dark, a little disturbing, definitely interesting.

Miranda watched him as she poured the drink. "I wasn't expecting you today. What happened to Denny? I thought you two were doing something."

"We were. I mean, we're finished; we went to watch the Sox play." He moved closer to see the artist's signature in the corner: _MLH_. He pointed at the painting and said, "You painted this?"

"I did," she said, handing him the drink. "I went through a withdrawn artsy phase after my father…you know."

"It's intriguing," he said, sitting on the couch.

She sat in the floor on a large pillow so she could face him. "So who won the game?"

"Sox."

"Are you feeling okay?" She said studying him. "I thought you would be happier about the win."

He looked at her closely. "That's quite a shiner. Since when did you start take kick-boxing classes?"

"Usually I go on the nights you're with Denny or when you work late."

"How come you never told me?"

She shrugged. "I didn't think it was an issue. Is it?"

"No, but I just seem to learn something new about you every day. You never told me you painted either."

"I don't…anymore."

"It just seems like it would have come up."

She sat her glass on the table and leaned back on her hands. "Typically it takes time to get to know someone, but if you want to cut through all that I could just type up an itemized list of everything I have ever attempted or experimented with and continue to experiment with. Then you will know everything—and be incredibly bored from here on out."

He sniffed a half-hearted laugh.

"You seem despondent or edgy, like there's an actual _purpose_ for your presence here—besides spending time with me. What's on your mind?"

His eyes wandered to the cold, empty fire place and recalled the time they made love in front of the fire, Jim Croce playing in the background. Now there was something else playing, classical. He listened for a moment—Beethoven. A sandalwood scented candle burned on the coffee table.

As if the forces of the universe colluded against him, the music switched to a new song.

"_Moonlight Sonata_," he said somberly. "How ironic," he said lowly.

She smiled.

"The song you're saving."

"The song I'm saving."

He leaned back and stretched an arm over the back of the couch and said, "Since you now know how I feel…what are the chances that I could…that _we _could…make use of this song?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "Nice try. But it's going to take longer than a few weeks of saying you love me in order to get to _this_ song."

"That's cruel."

"You don't understand, Alan, every time I hear this song," she said, "It stirs such depths of passion in me. Sometimes, it feels like the song itself is making love to me. So I'm saving this song for _the one_ who makes me feel this way and when I find him, we will make love to it, slowly, softly, tenderly. I've always wanted to make love to this music. He must _be_ this song."

He smiled. "How idealistic of you. Forgive the question: but didn't anyone, even your ex husband ever make you feel this way at some point?"

She smiled crookedly. "Hardly. Though I loved him for a time, we had a very different style of love and sex; it could not really be called passionate."

He wondered now if he would ever be the one.

She turned the volume down and flipped the disc to the next track. "However, I doubt you came to talk to me about my love life with my ex-husband or about Beethoven."

"I did not." He looked down into his brandy glass, feeling her blue wolfish gaze on him, working on him, penetrating him. At last he said, "I needed to talk to you about something."

"It seems serious."

"It is."

He chuckled. "I don't know where to begin; it's so…unusual."

"I've come to appreciate…and expect…the unusual. How about we stop dancing around the subject and just cut to the chase, because you're beginning to worry me."

"Denny has proposed."

"Proposed what?" She said, releasing her hair from its clip, twisting it and clipping it back into place.

"That's the unusual part." He set his jaw and looked down into his glass. "Marriage," he said, setting his gaze on her. "To me."

Her brows furrowed and she looked around confused. A nervous laugh escaped. "You mean to tell me…" She shook her head in disbelief. "That Denny Crane has proposed marriage to _you_…you…Alan Shore."

"Yes." He clenched his jaws tightly.

"Is there something else you need to tell me because based on my past experiences with you…I would have never believed…I mean…you definitely seem to enjoy being with women…either that or you deserve an Oscar—several of them."

"It's not like that, Miranda."

Her cheeks pinked and her breathing increased. "Then what's it _like…_exactly…because as you can probably surmise I'm _really_ confused right now. I mean, not long ago you wanted to be exclusive with _me_—and then there was Paris, which pretty much convinced me of your sincerity…your intentions…and now…_this_!"

"You're angry."

She scoffed. "What other emotion would you expect? Joy? Elation? Did you expect me to jump up and down and shout congratulations! And then scurry out to buy you a friggin' wedding gift?" She jumped to her feet and paced the room. "I don't know how else to _be_ right now. What's the _appropriate_ emotion for something like this, Alan? I mean, you're so good with emotions and all, maybe you can recommend one for me to be feeling in this moment when my boyfriend, my lover, the man who _looooves_ me tells me he's marrying…another man."

"Let me explain." He stood and approached her.

"Have you accepted him?"

"Let me explain." He placed a hand on her shoulder.

She spoke slowly and emphatically. "Have you accepted him?"

He set his jaw and said quietly, "Yes."

She put her hand to her belly and took in a deep breath. She felt as though all the air had been knocked out of her body. She glared at him, eyes full of betrayal—a look he had become all too familiar with in the eyes of women. Then the storm rose in her eyes and suddenly he felt the sting of her hand across his face. She pushed past him and dashed up the stairs to her bedroom, slamming the door.

He set his jaw again and muttered to himself, "That went as well as I might have expected." He sat there for a few moments, waiting for her to cool off. He wondered if he should leave, but thought the better of it. He wanted her to understand and, if possible, to salvage some sort of relationship with her. He took another sip of his brandy and placed the glass on the table. He stood and moved slowly up the stairs to her bedroom.

He knocked softly on the door. "Miranda, may I come in?"

She didn't answer.

He opened the door. She was sitting on the end of her bed, staring out the window. She looked like a child in her oversized shirt, sloppy ponytail and her feet dangling off the edge of the bed in fuzzy pink socks.

He stood in front of her. "I can't begin to imagine your feelings. You have every right to feel hurt, angry—even betrayed."

She wouldn't look at him.

He sat on the bed next to her. "I want you to know that I have not been leading you on. I didn't expect this either." He chuckled anxiously. "I assure you it was as much a surprise to me as it is to you."

She wiped her eyes and sniffed.

Guilt gnawed at Alan. He continued. "Apparently he's been thinking about this for some time. After the accident, Denny had an epiphany of sorts. He realized that if something happened to him, he would have no one to take care of him. He would have no one to leave his legacy, his estate to, no one to manage his affairs once the mad cow…."

She looked down at her feet.

"He's had an extremely difficult time coming to terms with his Alz…" Alan swallowed. "Mad cow. It's getting worse. He got the results back from his last tests a few weeks ago. When you and I returned from Paris, I took him to the doctor. The progression seems to be slow, but it's still…progressing."

Her anger began to dissipate. She looked up at him. His face was careworn, his eyes sad. "I'm sorry to hear that, Alan. I really am."

He put a hand on her knee. "The reason he wants to get married is so someone he really trusts will have power of attorney over him when the time comes to…" He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. "You know."

She squeezed his hand.

"There are also benefits for his estate…in the end. So you see, I'm doing this because he needs me; because he is my dearest, most cherished friend and I can't turn my back on him when he needs someone the most."

"I understand, I really do. Forgive me for what is going to seem an incredibly selfish moment, but what am I supposed to do with this?"

"I don't know."

"And what happens if _I_ want to get married someday?"

His brows furrowed and his face tensed. "I would not stand in your way."

"And you could let me go so easily?"

"No." He shook his head.

"Are you asking me to give up the option of marriage then?"

"I would never ask that sacrifice of you. And if it meant your happiness, I could never keep you from marrying—if that's what you truly wanted. You see, Miranda, you and so many others have it all wrong."

She looked at him inquisitively.

"Everyone thinks that love is about holding on to people, but it's actually about learning to let them go. And because I really…" He closed his eyes and worked his jaw. "Do…love…" He shook his head and looked up toward the crown molding along the ceiling. "I couldn't possibly hold on to you if letting go meant that you would be happy—though, for myself, it would be nothing less than utterly devastating; it took me so long to open up to another woman after my wife…I know I would never be able to do it again; this is my last shot at it."

Her eyes grew moist. "I don't know what to do with all this, Alan." She put her hands over her eyes to hide the tears that threatened to fall. She quickly wiped her eyes and then rubbed her forehead. "What do you want from me?" She said, defeated.

"I wouldn't dare ask it of you."

She turned and faced him. "Alan, shoot me straight: if you had one wish for you and me, in light of all this, what would it be?"

"I would wish that you and I could find a way to stay together."

She sighed heavily and looked down at the scarlet comforter, tracing the small gold scrolls and vines with her finger.

"Miranda, nothing will change between us; this marriage is simply a legality."

"Yes, a little legality that would happen to make me an adulteress—legally—and you an adulterer. I've told you, I don't like being a mistress."

"But there's more to it than that. Isn't there? To be an adulterer is a matter of the heart and the truth. All three of us would know the truth—all of our hearts are in the right place; therefore, there is no adultery—only an…open marriage situation."

She scoffed. "Spoken like a true lawyer."

"Miranda…"

"Alan," she interrupted. "I need you to go now. I need some space, some time to think."

He nodded and stood. She stood too.

"I'll show myself out," he said, quietly. He placed a lingering kiss on her forehead, looked tenderly into her eyes as he held the sides of her face. He believed it would likely be the last time. He placed a gentle kiss on her lips and quickly left the room.

His footsteps echoed faintly on the staircase like a ghost's. A moment later, she heard the soft click of the front door as it closed. He was gone.

She stood at the bedroom window, looking down on him as he got into the car. Just before he sat down, he looked up at her briefly before getting in and driving away.

She wasn't sure how long she stood in the window, letting her mind roam and mull over her situation. She finally drifted out of her reverie and went to the kitchen. She looked through the cabinets and the refrigerator, but she wasn't hungry. She brought the bottle of brandy to the living room and turned on the television. She curled up on the couch with the brandy, mindlessly flipping through channels, listening to the television drone, though she wasn't really watching or listening. In fact, she simply stared at a corner of the room. In the earliest morning hours, she woke up on the couch, the television blaring an infomercial. She felt empty without Alan by her side. She wondered if he was spending the night with Denny to alleviate his empty feeling or if he felt anything at all.

Miranda stumbled up from the couch and down the hall to her bedroom, passing out across her bed, fully clothed. She woke up the next morning with a full throttle hang over. She took a shower, drank some coffee, got dressed and packed her bags. She grabbed her keys and caught a cab to a car rental station.

* * *

She rented an SUV and took off, driving south, thinking, Bob Dylan keeping her company. She stopped only for bathroom and food breaks. She decided when the sun set and then she would find a hotel to stay the night.

She ended up in some small town by the name of Bellefonte in central Pennsylvania. She checked into a local hotel. She called the front desk to ask about food. The closest places were all fast food or pizza delivery. She got back in the car and drove until she found a Waffle House. She sat at the counter, drank coffee, ate waffles and looked out the window, thinking.

When she had finished, she returned to the hotel. She sat in the bed, flipping through television channels. She called the temporary agency and arranged for a temp to take her place for Monday and possibly a few days following. She crawled under the bed covers and stared at the tacky mauve and green palm leaf pattern on the hotel curtains, thinking. She lay awake for most of the night, unsure of when she finally drifted off.

The next morning, she went out into the town of Bellefonte and walked around, looked in store windows; it was an incredibly small town, but beautifully historic. She walked around Talleyrand Park. She sat on a stone wall and looked out over the water.

After lunch at a small café, she jumped back in her SUV and headed further south to Mooresville, North Carolina and to the comforts only a mother could provide.

* * *

On Monday morning, Alan was surprised and concerned to find another person girl, a mousy woman with light brown hair, sitting at Miranda's desk. He approached the new girl and said, cautiously, "Hello. I seem to be a little confused. Do you work here now?"

She hunkered a little in her chair and looked up at him with dull green eyes. "No, sir. Only for today, I think. I'm from the temp agency." She looked fearful, like a dog with its tail between its legs

Alan nodded. His brows furrowed with concern. "And did anyone tell you…why?"

"No, sir. I was told to report here at 9, leave at 5 and an hour for lunch at 12. That's all I know."

"What is your name?" he asked softly.

"Brenda."

"Brenda. You seem to be afraid of me. Are you afraid of me, Brenda?"

She hesitated, her eyes darting. She then nodded. "A little."

"You've no doubt already heard stories of a particularly lewd and seedy nature about me."

She nodded again. "I have."

"Yes. Word does travel fast—especially the lascivious sort. I bet you've never wielded a weapon at anyone have you, Brenda?"

She frowned and batted her eyes. "No, sir."

"And I bet you've never even _dreamed _of having sex in any place other than the bedroom, such as a supply closet."

She blushed. "Oh, no! Never, sir."

He opened his arms in a sweeping gesture. "And there you have it."

"Have what, sir?"

"Let me be the first to put your mind at ease, Brenda. You're entirely safe with me. You can forget all those nasty rumors about me."

"I was told you'd say that."

The wall went up in his eyes and he smiled crookedly. "Then allow me to speak frankly: I've got too much going on right now to even think about seducing you. And if I did make the attempt, it would be half-hearted at best. I'm sure I would lose interest in less than a minute. In fact, just thinking about it…" He paused, thought for a moment and then added. "Yep. I've already lost interest."

She blinked her eyes rapidly, hurt.

"Don't misunderstand, I don't mean to offend you. I'm sure you'd make quite a fulfilling meal for a particular sort of beast…" Alan looked up to see Brad Chase walking by. He indicated him with his hand. "Bradley, for instance, would be just the sort of dull stuff your mild fantasies are probably made of."

Brad stopped and frowned at him. "Problem, Shore?"

Alan smiled broadly. "Not at all. I was just telling Brenda here about our newest partner—G.I. Brad." He turned to Brenda. "Isn't he just a _doll_? And a brand-spanking-new partner—actually I don't think he really spanks, which totally _kills_ it for me, personally, but you might prefer an non-spanking guy. But his new position means he's oh, so powerful. Can't you just smell the power oozing off of him?" He inhaled deeply then turned to Brad. "Or is that your cologne, Bradley?" Then back to Brenda. "Either way, it's just juicy—I know I'm breathing heavier just _thinking_ about it."

Brenda blushed and looked down at the desk.

"Perv." Brad said, face contorted in disgust.

Alan smiled, laughing inwardly.

Brad's eyes darted around. "Where's Miranda?"

"She's sick…and tired…for the time being, Bradley, so she took a personal day. Brenda, here, is filling in."

Brad lifted his chin in acknowledgment, eyed Alan suspiciously, and walked away.

He turned to Brenda again. "All I'm saying is that I don't care for white bread when I can have an exotic dish of myriad spices and flavors to set my mouth watering and on fire all at once. Therefore, you are safe, dear, mousy, white bread Brenda. Let Brad Chase be your man; this wolf," he motioned toward himself, "likes a fiercer sort of prey."

He walked off, turned the corner and then paused, realizing Brenda was new. He turned the corner and said, "Welcome to Crane, Poole and Schmidt. If you need me, page me in Denny Crane's office."

She nodded.

* * *

On his way to Denny's office, Alan pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to Miranda. Voicemail. He listened to the whole thing, just to hear her voice. He didn't leave a message.

Alan entered Denny's office and closed the door behind him.

"She's gone, Denny."

Denny paused his video game. "Who?"

"Miranda. She's hired a temp to replace her for the day, maybe longer. She's not answering her phone. She's gone." Alan unbuttoned his suit jacket and flopped down on the couch, despondent.

"Where did she go?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be here right now," he said, frustrated.

"Okay, geez. Don't have to snap at me."

"I'm not snapping. I'm just…worried."

"Why did she leave?"

"Because I told her about our engagement."

"Oh." Denny wavered. "She'll be back."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I just know," Denny said, tapping his head. "Wii tennis? It'll make you feel better," he said, holding a controller out to him.

"I think I'll pass."

"You're missing out."

"Nevertheless." Alan pressed his fingers to his forehead.

* * *

After a couple of scotches with Denny, Alan decided to return to work. He had to place a few phone calls and meet with at least one client before lunch. He also had to prepare the Watson case. He would just bury himself in his work and let the chips fall where they may. He believed the day couldn't get any worse—though he would soon discover he was wrong.

When he approached his office, Brenda stood and said, "Mr. Shore, there's a Ms. Wilson in your office."

He froze. His face pinched up. "Come again?" He touched his tie.

"A Ms. Wilson is waiting for you in your office."

He ducked and whispered, "Tell her I'm not here. I've been called away."

"Too late, sir. I told her you were in Mr. Crane's office."

He rolled his eyes and sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath.

"Are you okay, sir?"

"I'm getting a headache, Brenda."

Alan entered his office and paused in the doorway when he saw Tara, in a short flouncy skirt, leaning against his desk.

"Hello, Alan." She smiled.

He blanked his face and clenched his jaw. "Tara." He moved nonchalantly to his desk and began fiddling with papers. "To what do I owe this visit?"

She turned to sit halfway on the desk. "Nothing special really. Just thought I'd look up an old friend."

He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in his desk chair.

"Have I come at a bad time?"

"You have, in fact."

"You look tired," she said.

"That's hardly your concern now."

"So you're still angry with me?"

"I never was angry with you Tara—only disappointed."

She nodded. "Ah. From my recollection, it's far worse to disappoint you than to anger you."

"If you say so."

There was an awkward silence.

At last he said. "Is there a reason for your visit? Or did you just feel liking drumming up some ghosts?"

"I thought we might go to lunch and perhaps…"

"That's out of the question."

A light flirtatious smile crossed her lips. "Well, seems I shall have to really turn on the charm then." She moved to sit on the corner of the desk next to him, within his reach.

He held her in a cold, steely gaze. "You had better try your persuasive powers on someone else, Tara."

She flinched, a little shocked. "I never knew you to be so stolid when it came to your past women, Alan Shore."

"Then it seems you don't know me."

She leaned closer toward him. "But surely there's still some little spark that could…be…re-ignited." Her face was only inches from his.

Still the hard stare. "I can honestly say, there isn't."

"Oh, really?" She touched his face lightly and leaned in closer.

He stayed her hand and removed it from his face.

She leaned back, irritated. "Is it another woman?"

"It is."

"Surely it's not…" She pointed a thumb over her shoulder to indicate Brenda.

"No." Then he added impatiently, "Why are you here?"

"I've missed you, Alan. I just thought…" She shrugged. "I never really stopped thinking about you, loving you, and so I thought maybe you felt the same way."

"I suppose that's your misfortune. But you and I, we had our chance. You wanted what I could not give. You left."

"I had to Alan. After I broke it off between us, I couldn't hang around here. It was too awkward and I was afraid…"

"Afraid of what?"

"That we would never really be able to break it off. That we would fall into one of those on again and off again relationships. I didn't want that."

"You mean the very thing you're here trying to reclaim."

"This is different."

"How?"

"I've had some distance, some time to think about it. I've missed you…terribly, Alan. And I thought maybe…"

"Pardon me, Tara." Alan reached in his pocket and took out his cell phone. "Alan Shore."

The female voice on the other end of the line had a distinct southern drawl.

"Alan Shore?" she said.

"Yes."

"_The _Alan Shore?"

"The one and only."

"The same Alan Shore who sent my daughter home to North Carolina, licking her wounds?"

His breath halted. "Mrs. Houston?"

"The one and only."

He glanced at Tara who remained seated on the edge of his desk. Her arms crossed.

"I'm sorry, but may I ask you to hold for a moment?" He put his hand over the phone and said, "Tara, if you will excuse me, please."

She smiled sarcastically. "I don't see why I should."

He put the phone down and grabbed her by the arm, marched her to his office door, and guided her through it. He said, "Whether or not you decide to wait until my call is finished is entirely your choice." Her mouth fell open in pure shock as he gently shut the door in her face.

He returned to the phone. "I apologize. May I ask how you got this number?"

"I'm on Miranda's cell phone. I just started pushing buttons, if you must know the truth. And I was just lucky enough to get you." She laughed.

He smiled. "Is she okay?"

"She is. You're still a lawyer right?"

"I am."

"Are you any good?"

He smiled. "I'm one of the best. May I ask to what these questions tend?"

"Because we need you down here in North Carolina, if you don't mind."

"In a personal or professional capacity?"

"Well, I suppose it's a little of both. We've run into a smidgen of trouble and there's not a lawyer within a hundred miles that's going to come near us. And I figure you, as my daughter's lover, would have an especial vested interest in helping us."

He chuckled anxiously. He suddenly felt like a high school boy picking up a girl for a first date. "Mrs. Houston…"

"You can call me T. It's short for Theresa, but everybody calls me T."

He faltered. "T" He chuckled again. "Your daughter and I are not…"

"Alan, if I may call you that…"

"You may."

"Alan, I've wandered this old world a lot of years. My daughter just turned 32 this past November and, by the sound of your voice, you seem to be a full grown man, though you may not always act like it, so let's not sugar coat the truth. There's just no sense in pretending that your relationship is anything less than sexual, even intimate."

He laughed. He liked her already. "Very well. In that case how can I help?"

"Miranda's in jail."

His breath caught again. "I'll be right there. May I get your address and a telephone number to your home?"

She gave him the information. "Thank you, Alan."

"Goodbye T. I'll be there as soon as humanly possible." He snapped his phone shut and packed up a few files in his brief case. He then paged Brenda.

"Yes, Mr. Shore?"

"I'm going out of town. Cancel and reschedule all my appointments for the next three days. I will keep you posted for further instructions. I will contact your agency to keep you on for as long as I need you. You will be my contact person here. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"If Shirley or any of the other partners ask where I'm going, tell them I have a case in North Carolina—that's all anyone needs to know right now."

"Yes, sir."

He gathered up his things and checked his watch. "If you need me for anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to call my cell. I need your cell phone number. I need to be able to talk to you at any time."

"Yes, sir." She jotted the number down on a slip of her notebook paper and handed it to him. He shoved it in his suit jacket pocket.

He sped past her toward Denny's office.

"Denny."

Denny was sitting at his desk, with headphones on and his eyes closed.

"Denny!" Alan said louder.

Denny opened his eyes sleepily. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Meditating. Supposed to be good for the mad cow."

"I've got to go out of town."

"Where to?"

"Mooresville, North Carolina."

"North Carolina? What do you want to go there for?"

"Miranda's in jail."

"What for?"

"I don't know yet."

"Want me to go with you?"

"Not this time. I'll probably be gone for a few days, so I'll need someone to cover my rosy cheeks here—especially with Shirley and Carl."

"Will do." He saluted.

Alan saluted back and, turning ran right into Tara.

She pursed her lips. "You're not going to get away so easily Alan."

"Tara," Alan said impatiently, "I really don't have time for this."

"Tammy!" Denny said, rising from his seat, leering at her. He walked around his desk toward them.

"It's Tara," she said.

He ran his eyes over her body and then took her hand in his. He shrugged. "Whatever." He kissed her hand. "I've really missed you. How long has it been?"

She smiled tightly and pulled her hand from his grip.

She looked back at Alan, hand on her hip. "I'm rather curious to know your current flavor of the month?"

"Actually, it's been the same flavor for the past six months."

She lifted her brows, surprised. "I'm astonished that you haven't grown tired of that same old flavor yet."

"I haven't."

"Sounds serious."

"It is."

"You must love her."

He struggled to suppress his anger. "You know what Tara? You gave up the right to this information a long time ago."

"I just want to know if there's a chance."

"Fine. Would you ever wear a pair of red cowboy boots with an elegant evening gown?"

"What?" She laughed, rolling her eyes. "Never. What a ridiculous question."

"Exactly. That's your answer. I have to go. My lover awaits and I make it a point to never keep her waiting." He started to walk away.

She cocked an eyebrow petulantly and spun. She said to his back. "You're a real bastard, Alan."

He stopped, turned and walked back to her. He stood very close to her, putting a hand on her shoulder and looking earnestly into her face. "Yes, I know. And I recall there was once a time when you rather adored that quality in me…that is, when it served _your_ purposes. But as it stands right now, it's gladly serving another's purpose." He dropped his hand. "Goodbye, Tara." He gave her a hard, pointed look then turned and walked away.

He rushed home to pack his travel bag and was soon on his way to the airport. As he drove, he called Brenda to have her arrange the first flight out of Boston to Mooresville.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh My Sweet Carolina

Chapter 2

He caught his flight, made it Mooresville within several hours after a horrible layover in Chicago, and rented a car. He arrived at T.'s house at about eight that evening. The sun had already disappeared in the distance, leaving a dusky purple trail. He got out of the car, the sound of crickets and tree frogs greeted his ears. He walked up the gravel path to the house. It was a large white colonial—an old, historic structure with black shutters. A covered porch wrapped around the front and sides. The porch light was on. He knocked on the screen door. Bugs fluttered around the porch light. Soon the door opened and T. stepped aside to let him in.

"Alan, I presume."

"Yes."

"Please, come in."

He stepped inside. The house was warm and cozy. Hardwood floors, a winding staircase to the upper level. To one side was a pair of French doors that led to the living room and to the other side of the foyer was the kitchen.

"If you'd like to put your things away, I'll go ahead and show you to your room."

She spoke as they slowly climbed the stairs. "I hope you had a pleasant flight?"

"As pleasant as coach can be."

She chuckled. "You got here much faster than I expected and frankly I'm pleased to see you came at all. I always say a man's actions speak much louder than his words."

They reached the landing. She turned to him. She had eyes much like Miranda's, but with deep laugh lines. They shared the same pale skin, but where Miranda's chin came to a delicate, feline point, T.'s was an indelicate squarish jaw line. She was a pretty lady still. When she said she was old, Alan had half expected her to have gray hair and walk hunched over. But she had brown hair that grazed her shoulders, and she walked proudly erect. She spoke in a drawl he found delightfully seductive, much more pronounced than the hint of the south he sometimes detected in Miranda's speech. She said, "I expect, since you're a lawyer, you live by your words, but it's all air. It's the actions, the things a man _does_ that speaks his true heart, his true mind, and his true nature." She stared at him suspiciously for a moment and said, "You wouldn't happen to know how she got that black eye, would you? She wouldn't tell me."

He was caught a little off guard by the question. "She told me she got it in kick boxing class."

A satisfied, knowing smile crossed her face. "That's good to know. I figured it was probably something like that." She pulled her pink cardigan tighter around her thin frame and turned back down the hall. She stopped at the first room on the left, opened the door and turned on the light.

"I hope you don't mind sleeping in Miranda's old room. It's the only room presently in order for guests."

"I don't mind." He put his bags on the bed and looked around the room.

"It's still much like she left it."

He moved to the vanity table where several pictures lined the mirror. He leaned close to look at them. There were pictures of Miranda during her high school and early college years; some pictures of her with her father. His favorite picture was of a pre-teen Miranda standing with her father on a boat, holding up a fish she had caught, squinting against the sun. Her father was a tall, lean man, athletic-looking. He also liked the pictures of her with the horses, grooming, riding, nuzzling them. There were pictures of her with friends at concerts, camping, canoeing, swimming. He couldn't help but smile at the collection of happy memories he wished he could have witnessed first hand. T. pulled a picture down of Miranda and her father, sitting on the porch together in rocking chairs, smoking cigars. Miranda was barefoot, braided pigtails. She handed it to Alan. "Here's a picture of her with her daddy. I think she was about 16 here." She laughed. "He loved those nasty cigars. I tried to tell him not to give them to her, but he wouldn't hear of it and neither would she. I don't know if she liked the cigar so much as the time with her daddy. You know how that is."

"I can only imagine." He smiled wanly.

"Two peas in a pod those two—the best of friends. When he died…" She put the picture back. "I suppose you know about that?"

"I do."

She sighed. "She went through a really rough spell for a few years after that. I worried so about her. Wasn't sure if she was going to make it, but she pulled through. She's tough, that one—tough as nails."

He chuckled. "Indeed." He smiled at her.

"That's her daddy's work. He encouraged her to be tough. She was such a tomboy. He liked it that way, said he'd never have to worry about her being able to fend for herself." She smiled sadly. "I suppose he was right. After his death she grew _too_ hard, though, too tough. I feared that she'd never really be happy again—that she'd never…" T. paused and smiled tightly and said, "Well, listen to me going on and on. You must be tired and in need of some refreshment. Are you hungry?"

"I ate dinner at the airport after I landed, thank you."

"Would you like something to drink then? Do you like iced tea?"

"That would be nice."

"Well, if you need it, the bathroom is across the hall and everything you need is in there. Once you get settled in, come on down and we'll have that tea."

"I will be down in a moment."

She smiled, wrapped her sweater tighter around her middle and went downstairs. Alan sat on the edge of the bed, taking in the pale lavender walls, the pictures, the stuffed animals, the high school and college memorabilia. Miranda's perfume and makeup bag was on the vanity. He reached for the perfume bottle. He lifted the lid and took in the scent. He gently replaced the lid and returned the bottle. When he went to the bathroom, he noticed Miranda's red silk robe hanging on the back of the door; it was the one he had bought her to replace that ratty terry robe she wore. He pressed it to his face, took in her scent and the softness of the silk—memories, fantasies began to crowd his mind. He pulled away and descended the stairs to join T. in the kitchen.

"I hope you like blackberry crisp. I just got my first berries of the year in this week. They grow out near the pond. I think the summer berries are better, but there's so much sugar in this you'd never know."

Alan smiled. "Thank you."

"Would you like a scoop of vanilla ice cream with it?"

"I would."

"I made some coffee if you'd rather have that instead of tea. I know I prefer coffee with my dessert."

"That would be perfect." He was so incredibly relaxed in this house, as if he were on vacation at a bed and breakfast in some remote location. The kitchen was inviting, cozy and elegant with its dim lighting, dark cherry wood cabinets, black granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances.

While they ate their dessert, T. asked Alan all about where he was from and where he grew up, where he went to school, why he wanted to be a lawyer, and so on. Alan patiently answered all her questions, and asked a few questions of her in his turn, to be polite, though he was eager to get to the purpose behind his visit.

At last there was a break in the conversation and Alan jumped on the opportunity. "So what happened with Miranda?"

"Well…" She took a sip of her coffee and sat it down, folding her arms on the table. "Let me start at the beginning. A few years back, a man by the name of R.J. Pullman came by the house here and wanted to buy up my property. Seems he wanted to build some condos, which would naturally draw in shopping centers and such; you know, the typical urban sprawl situation."

"I do."

"He said he would make me richer than God. He was prepared to cut me a check for several million right then and there. I told him that this property had been in the family for generations and that I wasn't interested in selling; there are some things you can't put a price tag on. He smiled his greasy smile and handed me a business card and told me to call him if I ever changed my mind."

Alan leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his hands in his lap. His eyes never left her, his attention honed in on her every movement, nuance, word. "How old is your property?"

"This property has been in my family since before the Civil War."

Alan's eyebrows shot up in shock. "That's quite impressive."

"So you can certainly understand why I wouldn't want to get rid of it."

"I do."

"Well, some time went by and I thought I had heard the last from him, but then he came back. I told him no again. If I had to guess, I'd say he came about once every six months or so, initially. This went on for a few years. Then this past year, he's really been turning up the heat with letters, phone calls, visits to the house—you name it. It was about once a week or so, now it's a few times a week."

"Have you sought to press charges for harassment?" He sipped his coffee.

"That was going to be my next move. I had talked to Miranda a few months ago and she told me the same thing. Maybe she mentioned it to you?"

"She hadn't actually."

"Uh-oh. I shouldn't have said that. I hope I haven't caused a problem."

"Not at all."

"I suppose she wanted to handle it herself if she could. She's always been like that, you know."

He smiled. "Yes. She is stubborn that way."

"Truer words were never spoken! Stubborn as an old mule."

They chuckled.

"Anyway, she said I needed to document every single time he made contact. So I began making my case. Excuse me." She stood and went to another room for a moment. She soon returned, carrying a folder. "Here's what I have so far." She plopped a large folder about three inches thick onto the table in front of Alan. Alan opened it and flipped through it. "These are the letters I've received and notes I've made of visits. I've also got videos and recordings of when they came to visit in person. As you see, the letters get increasingly…aggressive."

"Yes," he said, nodding, his eyes skimming the latest letter. "They do."

"When I showed this to Miranda, she hit the roof—as you can imagine."

He smiled faintly. "I can, actually."

"She knew that I was having problems with this fella, but I don't think she understood the magnitude of it." She sipped her coffee. She stared upward, thinking. "Then I think it was sometime last week a snotty lawyer man came to the house and said that my property was going to be declared…" she dropped her head and put her finger to her lips. "What was it called? Some fancy legal term…"

"Eminent domain?" Alan said, growing increasingly angry with what he was hearing.

"That's it," she said, snapping her fingers.

"And you told this to Miranda?"

"I did."

"I can certainly see why she became so angry. What happened next?"

"Well, this morning, that lawyer man came back. I stepped out on the porch there to talk to him. Miranda stood at the door listening. I've tried to shelter her from a lot of this, Alan. I don't want her to worry. I didn't know she was listening in. Next thing I know, I hear the shotgun pump behind me. Miranda had that gun there." She pointed to a double-barrel rifle leaning in the corner. "I keep it around for protection or to scare off the coyotes."

Alan's face tensed. "You have coyotes here?"

Puzzled, she said, "Of course, Alan. You're about 10 miles out of the city limits."

He smiled tightly. "Right. Please continue."

"Right. Well, she stepped out behind me and pumped that shot gun and told me to get in the house. I told her not to get in trouble. She said there wasn't going to be any trouble—she just wanted to talk to him. So I stepped inside, but I stood at the door and watched and heard everything."

He sipped his coffee, watching her. "Good. You might need to be a witness. Was anyone else here?"

She thought for a moment. "Jimmy and his son, Ray."

"And who are they?"

"They do work for me on the property, the landscaping, fixing things—things I can't really do on my own anymore."

"And do you think they would provide a statement supporting your story?"

"Of course."

"I'll need to get their contact information. Please, go on."

"So Miranda wanted to know what was going on. He told her—and was really nasty and snotty about the whole thing. In fact, he acted quite like this was his very own property and _we_ were the trespassers—snide son of a bitch." She put her hand over her mouth. "Pardon me."

Alan smiled.

"She explained to him that they couldn't have the land and they were going to take the property over her dead body. He said that could be arranged. And he said it in such a way that made it clear he wasn't joking—the way he sneered and his eyes glittered. He seemed rather hungry for it. He stepped up on the porch and got in her face telling her, threatening her with all the things he was going to do to take the property. He told her we'd be out on the streets. I'd have to go to an old folks home, and so on. Well, I don't know if you know this, but Miranda's a rather…hot-blooded girl…"

He chuckled. "I certainly know that."

"She gets that from her daddy."

Alan smiled. "Indeed."

"Wild as a mustang. But her daddy always said she wasn't wild, just spirited." She laughed.

"That's a good word for it, I think." He sipped his coffee. "So then what?"

"Like I said, he got up in her face and then he pointed his finger in her face. As he spoke he tapped the end of her nose with his finger. Then he said something about her daddy. He said, he was too weak to live, too weak to take car of his family and that's why he killed himself and he left defenseless women to fend for themselves. If he were any kind of real soldier, he would have survived; he said a bunch of other ugly things. That was the last straw. She took a step back, and swung the end of that shot gun, whacking him in the side of the face. Then she kicked him in the chest and he lost his balance and went right through my screen door, busted it completely out. He tumbled down the steps, sprawled out on the ground. He didn't have time to get up because Miranda had already sprung from the porch and commenced to throwing as many punches as she could get in. At one point, she stood up and kicked him in the kidneys, ribs and back a few times—wherever she could land one." She suppressed a laugh. "I suppose I shouldn't laugh; it's really not funny, but he was such a sight, squalling and screeching, rolling on the ground." She put her hand to her mouth to stave off the laughter that lit up her eyes. She continued, "You know, it took both Jimmy and Ray to get her off of him and they are stout men. When the lawyer finally scrambled to his feet, she grabbed the gun off the ground and pointed it at him. He yelled more threats at her and she shot off one round at his feet." She laughed. "He about jumped out of his skin. Then Miranda told him the next round was going _in_ him if he didn't leave. So he hopped in his car and high-tailed it out of here, but not before she pumped the rifle again and shot out his back window."

Alan sighed deeply and squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

"Are you all right, Alan?"

"I am; it's been a long day."

"We can talk about this more tomorrow, if you like?"

"No, please. I need this lawyer's name and any other information you can think of. First thing in the morning, I will go down and see if I can get her out. What's the bail?"

"A million dollars."

Alan's brows shot up. "A million? That's quite exorbitant for an assault charge, even with intent to harm."

"I imagine it's their way of forcing me to sell the property so that I can raise the money to get her out." She held her coffee mug near her lips with two hands.

"I suspect you're right."

"I think the judge is connected to this somehow. If I'm not mistaken he's got some investments with this Pullman fella."

"Do tell."

"That's all I know. I've heard rumors. There are so many rumors in small towns."

"What's this judge's name?"

"Ben Henderson."

"I need all the information I can get on him too—even if you think a detail is insignificant, please tell me; it could be crucial or lead to crucial information."

"Will do."

* * *

Alan went to bed that night and lay awake staring up at the ceiling, thinking. He looked at the clock. Two. He rolled his eyes, got up out of bed and went to the bathroom. On his way out, he noticed Miranda's robe. He pulled it off the hook and carried it back to bed with him. He snuggled up against it and pressed his nose into the fabric to smell her scent. He missed her terribly, but was at least able to finally sleep.

* * *

At seven the next morning the smell of bacon and coffee wafted upstairs and pulled him from his slumber. Groggy, hair mussed, he sat up and looked around, taking a moment to recall where he was. He rolled out of bed, took his shower, dressed in a suit and joined T. downstairs.

"Good morning, T."

"Good morning, sweetie." She dropped the last of the bacon on a plate and turned to face him, wiping her hands on her apron. "I hope you slept well?"

"Not really."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Was the bed not comfortable?"

"The bed was fine. I just had a lot on my mind."

She nodded. "I imagine you did. I hope you like bacon, eggs and biscuits."

"I do."

"Please, have a seat and dig in."

He pulled out a chair and sat down.

She sat a jar on the table. "Here's some strawberry jam—canned it myself last summer from the berries I grow in the garden out back." She poured him some coffee and sat down to join him for breakfast.

They ate over idle chatter.

"So what's the plan for today?" She asked.

"I have a couple phone calls to make then I'm going down to see the judge. Maybe I can get him to change the bail."

"Should I come with you?"

"I think it would be best if you didn't. Your presence might impede any negotiations I might be able to make.

"Surely there's _something_ I can do. I can't stand to sit idly while my baby is in jail."

"You can call Jimmy and Ray and have them come by sometime this afternoon so I can get their statements. If you like, you can also call around to people who know the judge and this lawyer to see what you can find out about them. Or you can go to the library and look up old newspaper stories about any of the people involved—see what you can find."

"Sounds good."

T. went upstairs to dress while Alan placed a call to the office. He spoke first to Brenda and gave her some instructions to research some case law on eminent domain and other laws in North Carolina, including assault with a deadly weapon and intent to do harm, trespassing, and self defense. He then asked her to transfer him to Denny. He really just wanted to check in with Denny to make sure everything was okay. He explained the situation to Denny.

"I don't blame her," he said. "I would've loaded his ass with buckshot."

Alan chuckled. "I know you would have, so I suppose I consider myself fortunate that I only have an assault charge here instead of something much worse."

"I can come down there, if you want—shock and awe them."

"Not just yet, Denny. I have a feeling I will need you in Boston."

* * *

Alan arrived at Judge Henderson's chambers to speak with him. The secretary attempted to inform him that he couldn't go in because the judge was in a meeting. Alan ignored her, pushed past her and stepped into the judge's office—a posh, elegant room with thick green velvet curtains and dark mahogany and leather furniture. The judge, a balding man around 60 sat behind his desk. He looked up from his conversation.

"What's the meaning of this?"

"Alan Shore, Your Honor. I would have just a quick word with you, if you don't mind." Alan looked down at the man sitting in the leather chair across from the judge. His face was swollen with cuts and bruises and his arm was wrapped in a sling. "Oh! You must be Eddie Garnie—the greasy lawyer Ms. Houston beat up."

"Who are you?" The judge said, bluntly.

"Alan Shore. You've forgotten already? You might need to see a doctor about that."

"Never heard of you."

"I suspect that's because I'm from Boston."

The judge put down his pen and removed his glasses. "And what on earth is a Yankee lawyer doing in my chambers?"

"I'm here on behalf of Miranda Houston."

The judge smiled sardonically. "Is that a fact?"

"It is."

A twinkle of acknowledgement leapt to his eye. "Now why would a fancy pants Yankee lawyer like yourself have any interest in that redneck rag-tag floozy—outside of a good time, that is?"

Alan's gaze turned hard and cold. He refused to let this man push his buttons. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down. "She's my legal assistant at Crane, Poole and Schmidt. And I've got quite a back log of cases and can't possibly spare her another day, so I need you to let her out."

The judge leaned back in his chair, studying Alan, putting the tip of the glasses' earpiece to his lips. "Is that so?"

"That's so."

"Well, I surely do hate to disappoint you Mr…uh…"

"Shore."

"Shore. But the law is the law and so she stays right where she is."

"And I would agree that the law is the law. I don't even have a problem paying the bail, but for the fact that a million dollars is rather exorbitant—usually reserved for the worst of criminals."

The judge smiled sarcastically. "Your friend committed a crime, an assault with a deadly weapon, against one of the officers of this court. We do not take such crimes lightly here in North Carolina." The judge glanced at Mr. Garnie and then said, "If you don't have the money…"

"Oh, I have money enough to get her out several times. That's not the issue. It's the principle of the matter."

"So you'd let your assistant sit in jail on a matter of principle?"

"I would."

The judge and the lawyer exchanged a knowing look and snickered. "I imagine, when and _if _she ever does get out, Mr. Shore, she will be madder than a wet hen that you let her sit in jail in order to save your money. You might not have your valuable assistant anymore. In fact, she might do to you what she did to ol' Eddie here."

"That's where you're wrong. I don't take extortion or bullying lightly and neither does she. This particular woman would rather rot in jail than to freely give you what you're after."

"That could be arranged," he said, the hint of a sinister smile on his lips. "But I'm curious to know exactly what you think we're _after_, Mr. Shore?"

"Well, it seems as if you and your good old boy cronies are trying to bully one tiny, albeit stubborn, woman, out of her property—a property, I might add, that has been in her family for generations."

The judge laughed, glancing at Mr. Garnie. "You sure tell a pretty story, Mr. Shore."

"You think that by putting such a high price tag on her daughter, Mrs. Houston will have no choice but to sell the property in order to raise the money to get her daughter out of jail. It's exorbitant, it's extortion—it's illegal here in this land where the law is the law."

The judge narrowed his eyes and leaned on his desk. "Those are serious allegations, Mr. Shore—allegations I don't think you can support."

"I hear rumors. Rumors get around so easy in a small town."

"And the people who spread those rumors are the same ones who believe in the Area 51 cover up and that we never really put men on the moon; it was just a lie the government made up so they could bilk the taxpayers out of their hard-earned money."

Alan smiled tightly, his eyes cold. "As my aunt used to say it smells funny and so I won't eat it. There's an odd smell about all of this and though I won't eat it, I will get to the source of it."

The judge smiled menacingly. "That sounds like a veiled threat, my friend."

"You and I are anything but friends. And rest assured, it's not a veiled anything. I'm saying it outright."

The judge leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face, and folded his hands over his paunch. "You aren't big enough, Mr. Shore. In fact, I think you're a lot like my old hound dog, Queenie—all bark and no bite."

Alan glared angrily at him. "You need to recuse yourself from this case and I would ask for the venue to be changed, because I can see Ms. Houston will not get a fair trial here."

The judge laughed loudly. "That's quite a joke, Mr. Shore. I never would have pegged you for a comedian." He grew serious and his face angry and tight. He leaned on the desk and glared at Alan with his dark, beady eyes and hissed. "No. She's getting her comeuppance right here." He jabbed his finger against his desk. "In _this_ court and I _will_ preside. I don't care how many fancy-pants lawyers she throws at me."

"Do you have a problem with my pants? Would you like to know who my tailor is? I can give you his number. Or is this some sort of coded language? Are you hitting on me?"

The judge seethed and spat, "Get out. Get out of my office."

"Gladly, because the foul stench is about to overpower me." Alan stood and buttoned his suit coat.

The judge collected himself and leaned back in his chair. "Good luck, Mr. Shore."

Alan smirked. "I don't need luck Your Honor because you have made two very serious mistakes."

"Oh really?" The judge laughed.

"First you've underestimated me; second, you've pissed me off. You might want to have your pretty little red-headed court clerk—you know, the one you're having an affair with behind your wife's back, the one you spread out on top of this desk in the late evening hours while your wife thinks you're working late—have her do a little research on me. I work for Crane, Poole, and Schmidt, one of the top law firms on the East Coast. I'm one of the best attorneys in that firm. I took on big tobacco and won. I assure you, old Queenie and I have nothing in common—I _do_ bite and my bite draws blood."

The judge smirked. "Well then. I look forward to pitting my dogs against you in the ring."

"I pegged for just that sort of person. Good day, Your Honor." He turned.

"You can't win this, Mr. Shore," the judge said to his back.

"We'll see," Alan said without looking back.

* * *

Alan stopped by the jailhouse to see Miranda. He stood at the door. She was lying back on the bench, wearing the orange jailbird jumpsuit. She stared up at the ceiling, singing softly to herself "I hear the train a comin', it's rolling round the bend/ and I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when, I'm stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin' on, but that train keeps a rollin' on down to San Antone." She played with her voice, going lower and lower, to see if she could hit the low notes like Johnny Cash on the last word.

Alan smiled to himself. "I don't think orange is your best color," Alan said. "And I like the song, but I don't think your vocal range will match Johnny Cash's."

She sat up at the sound of the familiar voice. "Alan!" She ran to the cell door.

Alan motioned to the guard to let him in. The officer opened the door. Alan stepped in and Miranda threw her arms around him and dotted his face with kisses.

"I take it you're happy to see me."

"You have no idea."

"I have an inkling. So you're no longer angry with me?"

"I had stopped being angry the moment you explained the engagement to me. But I just needed some time and space to think about where I fit in—_if _I fit in."

He looked around the cell. "Well, I'd say you certainly accomplished that—perhaps not much space, but plenty of time." He looked back at her and said, "So have you decided anything yet?"

She shrugged and shook her head somberly, "No." She put her head against his chest, listened to his heart, beating loud, strong. She closed her eyes and slid her arms around him under his suit jacket. He was so warm. "I'm so happy you're here." She sighed, relieved. They stood this way for a brief moment then her eyes popped open. "Wait a minute…" she pulled back and looked at him, confused. "How did you know I was here?"

"Your mother."

"How did she get your number?"

"She's a very resourceful woman."

Miranda chuckled. "So what do you think about her?"

"I like her, but then I have a thing for mamas."

"Not funny." She pinched him.

He pulled back. "Hey don't pinch my fat."

She chuckled. "So did you come all the way down here just to pick on me?" She pulled away from him and sat down on the bench.

"In part. But I also came to meet with the judge to see if I could get that one million dollar bail reduced to a reasonable figure."

"I bet that went over like a lead balloon."

"It did. Worse, I'm certain I've pissed him off."

"Great." Miranda sighed. "I guess mama told you everything."

"She did."

"So on a scale of one to five, five being the worst, how angry are you with me?"

"Negative ten."

"Disappointed?"

"Negative two."

"I don't blame you in the least for attempting to defend your mother, your estate. Though I really wish you'd try to keep your temper in check better. It's too easy to push your buttons."

"I couldn't help it, Alan. Ever since Paris, daddy has been showing up in my dreams, so he's been on my mind a lot, it's made me edgy. When that bastard mentioned my father…" She clenched her jaw and shook her head. "Whacking him with the gun _was_ the controlled reaction. I wanted to shoot him dead on the spot. But I figured I'd do less time for assault."

"Anywhere else, that would be true, but they want that property, Miranda, and they are more than willing to put you away for a very long time in order to get their hands on it."

"Alan, I don't care if they put me away for the rest of my life, but you've got to save that property—for my mama; it's all she has. It's been in her family for generations, Alan. I was serious when I told them they will take it over my dead body—they will have to kill me first."

He clenched his jaw and furrowed his brow. "Something tells me they would have little compunction about doing so."

She sighed heavily, pulled her knees up to her chin. "I wish mama had told me earlier how serious all this had gotten. I had no idea. I could have done something _legal_ to help." She dropped her forehead against her knees. "What are we going to do, Alan?" She said weakly. "What are we going to do?"

His mind had been chewing on that very question since he arrived in Mooresville. It was like playing chess, anticipating a variety of future moves from the opponent and how to best thwart those moves in order to checkmate them. He put his arm around Miranda and pulled her close. He kissed the top of her head and smoothed her hair. He then said, "Do you mind spending a few more nights in jail?"

"Do I have to?" She pulled back and looked up at him.

"If everything goes according to plan, I think I can have you out by Friday morning. Can you hold on until then?"

"Friday?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Yea."

"Then I need you to stay here, with excellent behavior—I mean I don't want you to so much as give the guard a cross look—until Friday."

She sighed. "Okay. Besides, where am I going to go?" She motioned around the cell. "It's not like I have much choice."

"That's my girl." He stood, placing a kiss on top of her head. "I hate to leave you, but I really must get started on this. Time is everything."

"I understand," she said despondently.

"Will you come see me again before then?"

"Every day."

"Will you bring chocolate when you come?"

He smiled. "I will."

She smiled. "You know the kind I like."

"Yes, those dark chocolate truffles."

She nodded, a large grin on her face. "And maybe a novel—if they'll let you. Or a puzzle book—_something_ to keep me entertained."

"Of course."

"Or if you're busy, maybe you can have mama bring them."

He nodded. He lowered his lips to hers, giving her a soft, lingering kiss.

"I'll be back as soon as possible."

She nodded.

He indicated to the guard that he was ready to leave. She followed him to the door, and pressed her head against the bars. They shared one last steady gaze, then he disappeared down the hall.

She remained there, with her head against the bars, looking down at her feet. She began singing softly to herself again. "Well if they'd free me from this prison, if that railroad train was mine, I bet I'd move just a little further down the line, far from Folsom prison, that's where I want to stay, and I'd let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away."


	3. Chapter 3

Oh My Sweet Carolina

Chapter 3

As soon as Alan got in the car he called Denny and apprised him of the situation and told him what he needed from him. Denny readily agreed. Alan then hung up with him and dialed Ryan Fraiser, Brad Chase's assistant.

"Hello, Ryan. Alan Shore here."

"Hey, Alan. What's up?"

"Well, you see, Ryan, I've got a special case that I'm working on in North Carolina. And it seems I need someone who is industrious and resourceful. Naturally, you were the first person I thought of since you've done some great work for me in the past."

"I'm flattered. What do you need?"

"I need you to gather up about two or three of your old law school buddies. You know, the ones you used to smoke pot with while you partied with hookers and played illegal games of high stakes poker in the back rooms of seedy little bars."

Ryan's silence was tense then he said, "Uuuhhh…I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think you do. My keen intuition tells me that you and I are cut from the same sort of sordid cloth—a dog always knows another dog."

"Well, Mr. Chase…"

"He makes you call him Mr. Chase? He would." Alan rolled his eyes. "Ryan, don't worry about Bradley. I'll send my temporary assistant to help him—something tells me she would rather be there anyway."

"Your temp…"

"Don't worry about that right now. Are you in or not?"

Ryan wavered.

"Did I mention that I will absolutely make this worth your while?"

"How much are we talking?"

"Ten each."

"So what do I need to do?"

"Get the first flight to Mooresville, North Carolina—on the firm's dime, of course. Talk to Denny; he'll take care of that. Give your flight schedule to Brenda and have her call me with details. Pack light. I'll have a car pick you up at the airport. You'll get the rest of the information when you get here. Get here yesterday."

"Got it." He hung up.

Alan pulled into a bookstore, made a small purchase and headed to a nearby Kinko's.

His phone rang; it was Brenda. She gave him the flight details for the three men.

Alan said, "Brenda, listen closely, this is what I want from you. You will book the penthouse suite of the most luxurious hotel in Mooresville for two nights then you will call for a limo to pick up those men in Mooresville when they land. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"You will then go to Mr. Chase that you will be his assistant for anything he needs. Tell him that Ryan is ill and has gone home, but he took the liberty of calling the temp agency to arrange for your services. And you will assist him, but I may still need some minor assistance from you as well. Of course, whatever assistance you give me is strictly between us. I'm relying upon your discretion. If anyone asks you where I am, just say I'm out."

"You are out, Mr. Shore."

"Good girl, Brenda. Just stick to that." He rolled his eyes. "You will also be the contact person for Ryan Frasier if he should need you. Did you get that other stuff I needed?"

"I did."

"Good. Fax it to this number right now." He gave her the number for the Kinko's as he pulled into the parking lot.

"It's going through now."

"Thank you Brenda."

He went inside the store and within a few minutes left with his faxes. He headed back to T.'s house to begin putting his case together. Jimmy, Ray and T. were at the kitchen table when Alan walked in.

"There you are!" T. said. "We were just talking about you."

The men all shook hands, introducing themselves. Alan ran his eyes over Ray who was at least six feet tall, tanned, frosty blue eyes and shaggy, dark hair. He was lean and athletic—the kind of guy that would like kayaking and climbing mountains; the kind of guy he imagined Miranda might have gone for in her college years—or worse, might _still_ go for. He wasn't any less jealous of Ray's father Jimmy who looked like an older version of his ruggedly handsome son. They smelled of the sun, sweat and earth—not an entirely unpleasant scent.

Alan said, "You two remind me of cowboys."

The men chuckled.

Jimmy said, with his charming, white smile. "I suppose we are—in a way."

T. jumped up from the table. "Have you had lunch yet, Alan?"

Alan chuckled. "I had forgotten actually."

"I'll make you something. You must be famished; it's nearly three o'clock. You just sit yourself down here at the table and I'll whip up something for you. You don't mind a sandwich do you?"

"Not at all."

Alan said, "Jimmy, Ray, I'd like to get your version of what happened yesterday." He pulled his legal pad out of his briefcase and tore off two sheets. First I need you to write your version and then I'll have some questions for you. Also, during the questioning, if you have any information about the men involved in this—stuff like shady deals, affairs, or other scandals, I would love to have that information as well." He pulled two pens out of his briefcase and handed them to the men. Alan noticed the pens looked incredibly dainty in their tanned, thick, calloused hands. He wondered if Miranda had a past with either of these men.

She placed a chicken salad sandwich in front of him along with a bowl of homemade vegetable soup and a glass of iced tea. "And if you're still hungry after that, there's plenty of that blackberry crisp left over."

"Sounds great." He didn't realize how hungry he was until he began to eat. By the time Ray and Jimmy had finished their accounts of Miranda's fight, Alan had finished his meal.

He read the papers quickly then asked them questions to get more details and information. When they had finished, the men returned to their work outdoors while Alan questioned T., over a bowl of blackberry crisp, about what she was able to discover.

The conversation eventually turned personal about family memories. He learned a great deal about Miranda as a young girl—full of vigor and mischief, but altogether sweet, generous, loving and compassionate. In the middle of a story about Miranda rescuing via theft a dog from an abusive owner, his cell phone rang and he had to excuse himself from the table. He stepped across the hall into the den; it was Ryan.

"We've landed and we're in the limo—a sweet ride by the way."

"Check into your rooms in the hotel." He looked at his watch. "I will meet you in the lounge at six—don't be late."

He returned to the kitchen where T. was putting dishes in the dishwasher. "Forgive me, but I need to leave for awhile. I have to meet with some associates who are going to help with the case.

"Will you be home in time for supper?"

"I should be back around 7:30 or 8:00, if that's okay, but don't trouble yourself. I can always grab a meal in town."

"Nonsense. You bring yourself back here for dinner."

He smiled crookedly. He was completely charmed by T. and her Southern hospitality. "I suppose I can't argue with that."

"You can not."

"I imagine it would be like trying to argue with Miranda."

She laughed. "You'd be right about that."

He gathered up his things. "Is there anything you need while I'm out?"

"Nope. See you soon."

He smiled warmly. "Yes." He headed out the door.

* * *

Before going to the hotel, he stopped by the jailhouse to see Miranda again. When he approached the cell he saw her practicing kickboxing moves in her cell.

"Is it safe to enter?"

She turned around, smiling. "I'm not sure. Did you bring the chocolate?"

He held up a plastic bag.

"Then yes, it's safe to enter."

The officer opened the door and Alan stepped in.

"I can't stay long," he said, checking his watch. "I'm meeting some associates I've brought down from the firm."

"Who?" She said, taking the plastic bag and looking inside.

"I think it's best if you don't have that information right now."

She shrugged. "Okay. Oh!" She pulled out the bag of dark chocolate Lindor truffles. "You are the perfect man. I love you more than ever now."

He chuckled. "I think there are many who disagree about the perfect man label, but as long as you still think so…"

She quickly unwrapped a truffle and popped it in her mouth, smiling ecstatically. She kissed him quickly on the lips.

"Mm, chocolaty."

"Thank you sooo much." She did a little dance. "It's the closest thing to an orgasm I can get right now." She rifled through the bag for another, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth.

He chuckled. "Indeed." He ran his eyes slowly up her body, as he inhaled deeply, dreamily. "When you're released, however, I would be more than happy to assist you." He ran his fingers down her hair. He picked up a strand of it and trailed it over his lips.

He sat down on the bench and patted the empty spot beside him. "I brought you something else," he said, pulling a few books out of the bag and holding it out to her.

She sat next to him, took the books in her hands and read the titles _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Crime and Punishment, _and _The Count of Monte Cristo._ She laughed aloud, throwing her head back—that deep throaty laugh he so adored. "Clever. Very clever. I've already read all of these, but it will be good to read them again, like visiting dear old friends; this should be plenty to keep me busy until Friday." She ran her hands over the books as if she were touching something cherished and priceless. "Thank you, sweetie."

He watched her. Feeling his eyes on her she looked up at him. "I do love you," she said. "And even if…" she hesitated and looked away. "I will continue to always…"

He smiled faintly. "Does it help to hear the old adage that if it was meant to be it will be?"

She sniffed a laugh. "Not really."

"Yea, it never really helped me either."

She put her hand in his and they sat there in silence, holding hands, both of them staring at the concrete wall before them.

After a few minutes Miranda said softly, "You should probably go have your meeting." She squeezed his hand and lifted to her lips, placing a kiss on it. He leaned in and kissed her softly.

She pulled back and said, "You _definitely_ need to go now. If you kiss me like that again, I can't be held responsible for what I'll do next." She smiled coyly at him.

He stood and buttoned his suit jacket. "I'll be back in the morning."

She nodded.

He turned and left. Miranda flopped down on the bench and picked up _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings_. There was handwriting on the inner cover—Alan's hand. He had written the following: "I can't write poetry, but I feel it, and I know when a poet has expressed the very thing I would wish to express to you—Pablo Neruda has been able to put into words in his Sonnet XVII that which only I'm capable of feeling:

_I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz  
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:  
I love you as certain dark things are loved,  
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.  
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries  
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,  
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body  
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth._

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,  
I love you simply, without problems or pride:  
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,  
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,  
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

And so I thought you should know it and remember that this is how it will be…no matter what."

* * *

Ryan and his friends were waiting in the hotel lounge when Alan showed up. They were in rumpled suits, ties loosened, drinking beer at a corner table. It was a dark, simple pub, empty but for the bartender and the one server.

"Gentlemen," he said, indicating to the server he'd like to have a drink. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He ordered his scotch and looked around the empty room. "It seems Mooresville isn't exactly equipped with luxury hotels. Nevertheless, you won't be here long. Besides there are other _bonuses_ you'll appreciate more." The server placed the drink on his table. He thanked her and she disappeared.

Ryan was about to introduce them when Alan held up a hand to still him. "Never mind that. I'm sure you all have names, but I don't care what they are. The less I know about you, the better."

"All right then," Ryan said, leaning on the table, "So, what do you need?" He was short, thick muscular build, cocky. His black hair stood in short messy spikes. His black eyes always seemed to have a mischievous glitter. He gnawed energetically on a toothpick. Alan liked him and despised him at the same time—this kid was too much like himself in many ways, except for the fact that Ryan wasn't quite as polished or refined as Alan was at his age.

"My assistant, Ms. Houston has been arrested for assault down here and they are holding her for a million dollar bail."

The curly-haired man said, "A million dollars for an _assault_? Who did she beat up—little orphans and nuns or something?"

"Exactly."

Ryan and his friends glanced at each other. "Who did she assault?" The blonde man asked.

"A lawyer by the name of Eddie Garnie."

The men laughed. Ryan asked, "She beat up a dude? What did she do to him?"

"Black eye, broken nose, split lip, broken jaw, a dislocated shoulder and possibly a few cracked ribs."

"Damn!" Ryan said. "She's a vicious bitch."

Alan glared at him coldly. "Poor choice of words, Ryan."

Recognition glimmered in his eye and Ryan said. "Oh yea, I've heard rumors that you and Miranda are, uh…"

"That's about as far as you should go." Alan's eyes slid to Ryan. He stared at him with hard, steely eyes until Ryan began to fidget and squirm.

Ryan held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "My apologies. Be cool. I meant nothing by it. So why did she do it?" He said, rolling his toothpick between his teeth.

"Because a particular businessman by the name of R.J. Pullman wants her family estate. He is using his cronies in the local government to claim eminent domain in order to force a take over of the land. He wants it for his condo and strip mall developments." Alan clenched his jaw. He tossed a folder on the table. "That's where you three come in."

Ryan grabbed the folder and opened it, skimming the papers.

Alan continued. "In this folder are the names of every person I am targeting at this time. There may be more to come, but these are the hub of this operation. You are to scour this town and find out every nasty, dirty rotten scandalous detail about each and every one of them. If they cheat on their wives, if they embezzle funds, if they pocket money from church coffers, if they kick puppies for a good time, I want to know about it. It is my intent to utterly destroy them all." He sipped his scotch. "I want her out no later than Friday, which means you have 24 hours to dig up all you can. You will work around the clock. Take turns sleeping if you have to. You will not party, hang out with girls or patron clubs and bars while you are here. For the next 24 hours, I own you mind, body and soul. Of course, you will be recompensed most generously for your work. You will not pay a dime for the flight, food or your hotel. I will pay you each ten grand." He removed his wallet from the inside of his suit jacket. He pulled out his credit card and tossed it on the table toward Ryan. "Put all expenses on this. Make sure it's necessary. Unnecessary expenses on that card will be reimbursed… one way…" he lowered his voice menacingly, "Or the other. When you return to Boston, I will have a _special_ bonus for you. However, if you even think about falling short of these requirements, I will bury you along with these men and you can spend your days getting very _intimately _acquainted with them in federal prison." He took an envelope out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. Ryan opened it, it was full of cash. "For bribes; you will need it. Yours is coming later—when the job is done."

The man with thick black rimmed glasses spoke up. "How do we know we'll get paid? We need some sort of assurance."

Ryan put his hand on the guy's arm. "Hold it, Tommy. I've done work with Alan before. If he says he's going to pay, he'll pay. He may have a reputation for being a real douche-bag, but he's an honest one."

A look of exasperation crossed Alan's face. "Thank you for coming to my defense so…eloquently, Ryan."

"No problem."

Alan rolled his eyes. "Ryan, I will be checking in from time to time. Any questions?"

"Nope. Let's get started." The three young men all jumped up.

"Good." Alan finished off his scotch, stood slowly, and buttoned his suit jacket. "Of course, I think it goes without saying that discretion is…top priority."

"Got it."

"Otherwise, Dean of Admissions at Harvard might find out that you, Tommy, have been re-enacting _The Graduate_ with his wife. By the way, I've seen the pictures and I can't say that I blame you. Neil, your ultra conservative law firm might not share my appreciation for the S&M lounge you secretly run out of an old building downtown. And Ryan…" A hint of a smile crossed Alan's lips. "I sure would hate for anyone at Crane, Poole and Schmidt to find out that you've been lining your pockets from the company treasure chest. I can certainly understand the temptation. I even did it myself once—allegedly."

All three of the men froze like deer in headlights; the blood drained from their faces and their eyes grew wide.

Alan touched his hand to his middle and said, smiling, "Don't ever make the mistake of thinking you can outwit me gentleman. The thing about under-handed douche-bags, like myself, is that we put a high value on people dealing honestly with us, we also make a point of knowing _exactly_ who we're in cahoots with." He set his jaw. "Good day, gentlemen and happy hunting. I look forward to your report." He turned and walked slowly away, leaving the three men whispering among themselves, wondering how in the hell he knew all that stuff.

At last Ryan said, "Hey. None of us said anything, we know that, so don't worry about _how_ he found out; it doesn't matter. I told you already, he's some kind of friggin' genius mind reader or something. Let's just get this done, get our money and get out of here."

* * *

At six on the following evening, Alan showed up at the hotel room. The Ryan answered the door. His hair stood on end, he obviously hadn't shaved and his clothes were wrinkled.

"Been napping, little Ryan?" Alan said.

Ryan rubbed his eyes and face. "Yea, just a little," he said groggily, scratching his chest.

"I came to get the report." Alan stepped slowly into the room. "I see cleanliness has not been a top priority." He scanned the piles of take out food containers, soda bottles, Red Bull cans, dirty coffee cups, piles of wet towels and rags. Neil was still stretched out, face down on the bed, still fully dressed. Tommy was sitting up on the couch, stretching.

Ryan slapped Neil in the back of the head. "Get up man." Neil snorted.

Alan moved through the room toward the television. He switched it off and sat in a chair beside the sofa. Tommy sat up on one end of the couch and Neil shuffled in to sit on the other end.

Ryan sat on the corner of the coffee table, facing Alan and handed him a folder. "Here it is—every little nasty detail."

Alan opened the folder and skimmed the papers. When he had finished, he slowly closed the folder and smiled. "Good work, gentlemen. I'm very pleased." He opened up his suit jacket pocket and pulled out three thick envelopes. "Here is your money, as promised. You can stay here one more night to spend on whatever your seedy and degenerate hearts desire." He stood, leisurely, buttoning his suit jacket. "If you'll pardon me, I have some work to attend to. When I get back to Boston, I will apprise you of the other recompense. Good evening." He walked out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

He went down to the lounge and began making calls to arrange a meeting with Pullman, Judge Henderson, Eddie Garnie, a couple of city council members, the chief of police, the city manager and the assistant city manager.

* * *

On Friday morning, Alan woke early and dressed in Miranda's favorite tie—the pale blue one—she said it brought out the blue in his eyes—with his charcoal pinstripe suit.

When he appeared in the kitchen to have breakfast with T., she said, "Well aren't you a handsome devil."

Alan chuckled. "Well, the devil part is certainly appropriate for today's meeting." He smiled, pulling at his shirt cuffs.

After a leisurely breakfast they rose from the table.

She said, "Here, let me get your tie." She straightened his tie for him. "Now I want you to go into that meeting today and give 'em hell. I want you to be the only man walking tall and proud out of that room. Send the rest of those curs scattering with their tails tucked between their legs."

He looked at her softly, smiling wanly. Her manner was so motherly, so nurturing. He wondered what it must have been like, growing up in this house with two parents who doted and…He swallowed hard and managed a hoarse whisper, "I'll do my best."

She smiled warmly at him and patted his cheek. "I know you will. Now go on and go in with both guns blazing."

He thought about Denny for a moment who would take her metaphor literally. He chuckled to himself. He picked up his briefcase and stepped outside. T. followed him out and down the porch steps to see him off.

Before he got in the car she said, "Alan?"

He paused, looked up at her.

"I'm very proud of the choice my daughter has made."

He set his jaw, issued a faltering nod and got in the car.

* * *

He arrived in the meeting room at the courthouse and burst into the room. "Good morning gentlemen…and lady…" He motioned to the female assistant city manager. He furrowed his brows and pointed to the city manager beside her. "Are you sleeping together?" Their eyes grew wide. "Not that it matters to me really, but I was wondering how your respective spouses felt about that?" He waved his hand. "Oh never mind. I don't suppose it's really all that important." He looked back at the city managers. "You look tired; you must have had a long night. I mean, when I look at these pictures…" He pulled a few pictures out of his briefcase and started flipping through them. "I can see how you would be very tired this morning." He held up a picture. "How did you get your leg in that position? I've tried, but can't seem to manage it. Perhaps I'll take up yoga." He tossed that picture on the table in front of them. The woman grabbed it and quickly hid it under a folder. He picked up another picture. "But I think I like this one most of all. The light from the street lamp gives this scene an artsy appeal—like something out of a Fellini film" He tossed that picture down. "If you are tired after a rigorous night of love-making, by the way, I can have someone bring in some coffee. As for myself, I'm just bursting with energy. There's nothing like a hearty country breakfast of bacon, eggs and biscuits to get you going in the morning, am right gentlemen…and lady? I really think I could get used to the food here."

Frustrated and anxious, the judge said, "Mr. Shore, we don't have all day and I don't give a damn about your breakfast. Could we just get to the point here, please?"

"Oh certainly. I've made copies for everyone." He began pulling folders out of his briefcase and tossing them around the table. "I'm just thrilled with the Kinko's here. 24 hour service and everything."

The people sitting around the table began flipping through their folders and looking around nervously.

Alan continued without missing a beat. "You see, contained within these folders—and don't worry about losing yours because I've plenty of spare copies in case you do—is a very long prison sentence for each and every one of you." He paused and then added quickly, "And, for a few of you, a very nasty divorce where the wife…or husband…takes away the kids and the dogs, the house, and about seventy five percent of your income for alimony, palimony, child support, and vengeance. I personally don't handle divorce cases unless they involve murder, but I can recommend some excellent divorce attorneys in case you need one."

"You can't surely expect to blackmail us," the judge said.

"Oh, but I can and I will. Because, you see, I've made a habit of making important friends and connections in my line of work and I've got a wonderful friend at CNN, we had a…thing…once, but she really was a sort of lackluster lover so our relationship never really went anywhere. However, what she lacks in the bedroom, she more than makes up for in her career as an investigative reporter. She would just _love_ to get her hands on this juicy little tidbit of a story. Where, you, Mr. Pullman roll into town with all your fancy cars, big bucks and high-rolling ways and you dazzle the local townsfolk into investing with your company. There are a lot of people, most of them in this room, who stand to make a whole lot of money if only you can get your hands on enough land to develop it into condos and strip malls—urban sprawl at its finest. And you manage to do all this by buying out the people who don't really want their land, but love having the money. Until you run into Mrs. Theresa Houston. She doesn't want to give up her land, but you tried to bully her and force her out and when that didn't work, you got your friends here at the government level to declare her property eminent domain. These friends will then sell it back to you, pocket the money, you will develop the land and they get a percentage of that as well." He paused, poured a glass of water and slowly drank it. "Extorting criminals is thirsty work. In addition to this, I've discovered the city council members present today; you, _honorable_ Judge Henderson, and the man hired to protect and serve this fine community, Police Chief Adams, all…wait…is this correct?" He looked closer at his paper. "Oh yes, it's right here in black and white. You are all in on an embezzlement scheme where you are swindling money from the city coffers, to pad your already inflated incomes. I bet the good citizens of Mooresville would love to have this information. I wonder what their reaction would be? It's my understanding that there might be some good old-fashioned vigilante justice brought down on your heads. Interestingly enough, however, I also have some very good friends in the FBI and the IRS, some fellas I used to play illegal high-stakes poker with in the backrooms of illegal massage parlors that fronted prostitution rings…uh…allegedly, that is. And these very good friends of mine would simply drool over a case like this where they can swarm down on a little town, guns a-blazing—they love _every_ opportunity they can get of dressing up in all that manly SWAT gear and toting their big, _big_ guns. Then, as I've also discovered, gentlemen and lady, there are a few politicians up in Washington who would really not like it if this little operation were exposed because that would call too much attention to their…_activities_, since, you know, they are connected to some of the people in this room and some of your activities. I would love to go into detail, because the sordid sleazy details are the ones I like the most, but I'd really like to get to my main point…"

"Please do," the judge said, leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"In exchange for my silence I would like Miranda Houston released from jail, no bail, her record completely wiped clean—so clean, in fact, that there is no evidence that she was even down here this week. In addition, I want you and all your little comrades to leave the Houston estate _alone_—no phone calls, no visits, no threats, no letters, not even a sly remark or an innuendo—nothing. That property remains untouched indefinitely. If I'm told that one of you so much as gives Mrs. Houston a cross look in the grocery store I will descend on this town with a fury and light it on fire. I will make it my life's mission to see each and every one of you go to federal prison—and not the posh, tennis-playing, resort prison—for the rest of your lives. And I will not stop there. I will strip away every penny, every asset you own until your families are left begging in the streets—not unlike what Mr. Garnie threatened to do to Mrs. Houston and her family. The only difference is, gentleman and lady, I have the audacity and the ability to turn a threat into reality."

The judge's face grew red. "And what guarantee do we have that you will not turn us in once you get what you want?"

"I give you my word."

The judge laughed. "I think I need a little more assurance than that."

"There's an unwritten code among bastards like us, isn't there, your honor. Your ass is covered as long as mine is. But once my ass stops being covered, it's every man for himself."

"I suppose that's true."

"But in case that doesn't ease your mind, here are the numbers for a few people, much in the same position you're in, who could vouch for the veracity of my word."

Then Eddie chimed in and spoke through his wired jaw. "Hey wait a minute! What about my medical bills?"

Alan's eyes slid over to him. "You'll pay for them. It's the least you could do after your harassment, your trespassing on private property, your libel, slander and inciting violence. As I see it, she was defending her property; she gave you what you were asking for—and what you most needed."

* * *

Alan showed up at the jail cell that afternoon. Miranda was sitting cross-legged on the bench, reading. The officer opened the door. Miranda looked up.

"You're free to go," the officer said.

"Really?"

Alan smiled. "Really."

She grabbed up her books. "It's a good thing. I was almost out of chocolate."

Alan chuckled.

* * *

As soon as they arrived back at T.'s house, Miranda hugged her mother tightly then declared she wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower. After her shower, she put on her robe and stood at the top of the stairs. She called out for Alan, claiming she wanted to speak with him a moment. He appeared at the bottom and looked up at her. She smiled mysteriously and walked away, closing her door behind her. He crept up the stairs. As soon as he entered the room, she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and crushed her mouth against his, kissing him hungrily, pulling him toward the bed.

He pulled away and said, "Your mother is downstairs."

"Then we'll have to be much quieter than usual." She pulled his shirt out of his pants and pushed him onto the bed, straddling him.

"Not possible…the bed squeaks."

"Then we'll do it on the floor." She said breathlessly, undoing his belt. "I want you desperately, Alan." She nibbled his ears while her hands ran over his body. She slid to the floor and pulled him down on top of her.

After slaking their desires, they lay in the floor spent.

"Wow," Miranda said. "I really needed that."

"Me too."

"Do you want to ride back with me tomorrow, instead of flying?" Miranda said. "We can take the long, scenic route back to Boston."

"Why not. Sounds like fun."

"So how did you get me out?"

"Extortion."

She laughed. "That's my man. I can't thank you enough for everything—for always being there." She kissed his lips gently. She sat up and pulled her robe back on. "As much as I hate to, I suppose we should go back downstairs so I can help mama get supper on." She stood up and rummaged through her suitcase, pulling out a pair of jeans and a black tank top. He lay in the floor, propped on one hand, watching her dress. She put on her tank top and then, much to his surprise, slid into her jeans without her panties.

"You are a wicked, wicked woman and don't play fair at all."

"What's that?" She looked into the vanity mirror, clipping her hair into a messy ponytail.

"Wearing nothing under your jeans. Now that I know that, I'll be distracted for the rest of the night with all sorts of delicious fantasies."

She looked over her shoulder and winked at him. "Good." She put some lip gloss on. "You could probably use the distraction, since I'm sure you've had a grueling week." She checked her lips in the mirror. "You should probably get dressed, sweetie." She sprayed some perfume on her skin and left the room.

He lay for a moment taking in the scent of her perfume as it spread through the air, fully content and, dare he think it, happy.


	4. Chapter 4

Oh My Sweet Carolina

Chapter 4

The next day, Alan and Miranda packed their bags in the car, said goodbye to T., Ray and Jimmy, giving hugs and kisses all around. Ray and Jimmy agreed to drop off Alan's rental for him so they could save time.

Miranda jumped in the driver's seat and turned up the Bob Dylan. Alan put on his sunglasses and relaxed in the passenger's seat.

"This is going to be a great day to travel," Miranda said adjusting her rearview mirror and putting on her seatbelt. "The sun's shining bright, we can roll down the windows, feel the wind in our hair." She lowered her window and put on her sunglasses.

After some time on the road, Alan turned the music down and said, "Did you ever have…anything at all with Jimmy or Ray?"

She laughed. "No."

"Why not?"

"That's an odd question. Did you _want_ me to have had a relationship with one or both of them?"

"No, but they just seem like…cowboys."

"Okay."

"And you seem like you would be attracted to…cowboys."

She looked at him, puzzled. "Why would you say that?"

"Sometimes you're so rough and tumble, like a bit of a cowboy yourself—it seems a good match. And Ray's a bit dreamy, don't you think?"

"Ray is like my brother, so no, I don't think he's dreamy. And just so we are clear, I am not at all attracted to cowboys, despite my own so-called cowboy behavior. You should certainly know that by now."

"Just checking."

She shook her head and turned the music back up, singing along with it. "I can't believe how little traffic there is on this highway. We should make great time, if this continues."

He turned the music back down. "I have another question."

"Okay."

"So where do you and I stand?"

"Ah, the relationship."

"Yes."

"I'm not sure. I really don't know what to do, Alan. I love you. That much I know. I don't want to give you up. I like _us_."

"I like us too. I really don't want to break up, but regardless of what happens, you have to stay with me at least two more weeks."

"Why?" She glanced at him.

"Because then we will be together six months complete."

"And is there some significance to that?"

"Well, I kind of have a bet."

"With who?"

"Brad."

"What's that got to do with our relationship?"

"Well, back when you first started working at the firm, Brad bet me that I wouldn't be able to get a date with you and even if I did, I would never get into your bed. Finally, he bet me that even if the first two events did happen, our relationship wouldn't last more than six months. So if you and I date two more weeks, it will be two weeks past the six months date. Then I will win the bet. You know I hate to lose."

She gasped knowingly. "I get it. So this is why you two have been dressing up in boas and heels."

"Yes."

She laughed. "That is hilarious."

He smiled. "I have to say I'm both relieved and pleasantly surprised that you aren't angry."

"Why would I be angry?"

"I don't know; it just seems like something, if I were to generalize, a woman might get angry over."

"Why?"

"Because it perhaps it calls into question my sincerity."

"I think it's funny and I don't question your sincerity at all."

"So you will at least stay long enough for me to win the bet, right?"

"Why should I?" She teased.

"Because I just got you out of a hell of a mess."

She laughed again. "Oh, yes. There's that. I suppose I could help you out with that. Brad doesn't have to know one way or the other."

"I would like to know though about your decision." He looked out at hills and hills of trees, the bright blue sky dotted with large, white puffy clouds.

"How about I let you know when I've figured it out. Until then…" She shrugged. "Why don't we just relax and just go on as if nothing has happened. When is the wedding?"

"I don't know. We haven't discussed it yet."

"Are you okay with just going with the flow?"

"I suppose I have to be."

"Oh don't say it like that. We can still have a lot of fun."

"Indeed."

She glanced at him and said, "You know what I'd like to do?"

"What's that?"

"Have some fun." She glanced in the rearview mirror to see if anyone was behind her. She slowed down the car and pulled over on the shoulder. There were no cars in sight. She pulled the car to a stop and turned up the music. She shut off the engine, keeping the radio on. She climbed into the back seat, sliding behind him.

"Care to join me?" She whispered into his ear, running her hands down his chest, pulling at his shirt to untuck it from his pants. She nibbled his ear.

He grew a little light-headed. He turned to face her and shook his head with a hint of desperation. "I'm not in shape for this sort of activity anymore."

"I'll take it easy on you. C'mon." She patted the seat next to her. "Just a little quickie."

He needed no other encouragement and quickly climbed in back with her, pouncing on her.

Afterward, they jumped out of the car and ran around to the front seat and continued their journey.

"You make me feel like I'm in high school again."

She giggled. "Well fourteen hours is a long time in a car. We have to keep ourselves entertained, right?"

He chuckled. "Let's not drive straight through. Let's find a quaint, out of the way little B&B to stay at tonight."

She smiled. "I know just the one. It's slightly off our path, but not too far."

* * *

They took their time getting to that quaint B&B, stopping a few times along the way for food or quickies. By the time they arrived in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, they were completely drained of energy.

"I know the perfect spot," she said. "If they have openings. I came across a delightful little B&B when I was passing through here last time."

She pulled to a stop in front of a large gray Victorian house with an open wrap around porch and black shutters. The porch light was on to guide their way. They walked into the house and approached the desk to ask for a room.

"We have a few rooms open tonight," the woman said. She studied them to discern their relationship, then added, "I have a honeymoon suite with a Jacuzzi tub and a fireplace, if you would like that room? It's rather secluded since no one is currently staying at that end of the house tonight."

Miranda glanced at Alan. He said, "That would be perfect. Is it possible to have some wine or champagne sent up to the room?"

"Sure. Here is our list."

They selected their champagne and climbed the stairs. The woman brought the champagne herself, started the fire, and informed them of the hours for breakfast.

They ran a tub of water, popped open the champagne and enjoyed a relaxing bath together. Afterward, they crawled into bed and snuggled tight against one another under the blankets.

* * *

They woke around eight, dressed, ate a hearty breakfast, and were on the road by eleven.

During the trip Alan turned down the music. "I have a favor to ask."

"Sure."

"I need a year's membership to the Moroccan for three friends."

"I'm not sure if I can get that."

"In addition, if you still know any girls there—especially the ones who granted special favors in back rooms—I need you to round them up as well."

"Why?"

"I enlisted the help of three men in order to get you out of jail. I paid them, of course, but I also promised them a bonus. That's where you come in. I figured you wouldn't mind helping since they are responsible, in large part, for your current freedom."

"You realize I might have to go back to dancing for awhile in order to make that deal."

"I do—in which case, Denny and I will need passes too."

She shook her head and sighed. "All right. I'll call Saheed tomorrow. But you will take care of any and all legal contracts between me and the Moroccan."

"I expected as much."

* * *

After several stops along the way, they rolled into Boston by around eight. Alan had called Denny during the trip and arranged to meet him on the balcony. Miranda dropped him off at the firm.

"I imagine you and Denny will have a sleepover tonight?"

"I think so, but we haven't really set any plans. Can I stay with you if he doesn't want to have a sleepover?"

"Of course. I guess I should get you a key to my place, huh?"

"That would be convenient. Then I could just quietly slip in while you sleep and gently wake you with delicate kisses all over your body."

She giggled. "That's certainly an incentive. You'd better go. Denny gets grumpy when you keep him waiting." She leaned over and kissed him. "Bye, sweetie."

"Bye." He opened the door and pulled his bags out of the trunk. He stepped up to the window and held his hand up.

She waved back and pulled away.

Alan entered the building and went up to join Denny on the balcony.

Denny was waiting and had a scotch and cigar ready for Alan.

Alan sat down with a heavy sigh. "Hello, Denny."

"Hey. Long trip?"

"Yes, but pleasant."

Denny looked at him and smiled. "You're absolutely glowing."

"Get out of here." Alan lit his cigar and blew smoke into the air.

"No, I mean it. I've never seen you so radiant."

Alan looked at him and smiled. "It was a good trip."

"Really? What happened?"

"I got Miranda out of jail, for one."

"Yes."

"I met her _incredible_ mother, for two."

"Yes."

"And we had lots of sex in the back seat of the car on our way home, for three."

"You and the mother?"

"Miranda, Denny. Miranda and I had the sex in the car."

"Back seat sex! Oh! I haven't done that since high school."

"Me either."

"How was it?"

"Thrilling, titillating, fun, youthful."

"No wonder you're glowing." Denny puffed his cigar.

Alan shook his head and stared at the sky dreamily. "She is something else, Denny. Indescribable."

"So how was it, being in the house with Miranda and her mother?"

"Wonderful. Her mother is…beautiful, elegant, charming, nurturing, kind, warm, intelligent, funny—and, I would imagine, tempestuous, passionate—all the things that attract me to Miranda—though she does lack a great deal of Miranda's more spirited nature." He sipped his scotch.

"Oooh. Sounds sexy."

"An incredibly sexy woman—and she keeps a double barrel shotgun in the kitchen."

"Oh Judas Priest! I have to meet this woman."

"And she's a fabulous cook. I bet I gained five pounds." Alan looked at Denny

Denny pointed at his with his cigar. "Better be careful. You don't want to gain too much weight before the wedding. Your tux won't fit."

"Noted." Alan looked upward, puffing his cigar. "Miranda's mother was everything I always wished my own mother to be. I felt…quite at home, like I _belonged_ there somehow. I was a little saddened to leave."

"Did you…uh…" Denny motioned with his hand.

"What?"

"Did you…mélange a Twix…"

Alan studied him for a moment, trying to piece together Denny's meaning. Then it occurred to him. "You mean ménage à trois?"

"Whatever fruity French term it is. Did you _do_ it?"

"Denny that's beyond vulgar."

"I just want to know. Mother and daughter—both hot, both sexy." He growled, gnawing on his cigar. "I think I pitched a tent just thinking about it."

Alan rolled his eyes. "Good God, Denny, it would be like having sex with my own mother. Have you not heard anything I've said?"

"I heard you, I heard you. All I'm saying is it would be too much to resist, both of them in the house at the same time" Denny turned to him. "Why are you so testy?"

Alan rolled his eyes and scoffed. "I'm not testy." Though the tone of his voice clearly indicated that he was, in fact, testy. "It's just that anytime I try to have a heartfelt, intimate…"

They began talking in unison, their voices getting increasingly louder as they each wanted to be heard but neither would stop to listen.

"Oh here we go again. You just can't resist getting all touchy-feely, can you?"

"…conversation. I would like for once to be able to…"

"…it's always some namby-pamby, girlie…"

"…express myself. I had horrible parents and for once I meet…"

"…get in touch with your feelings kind of crap. For the love of God man…"

"….a person I would be honored to call my mother—and in a lot of ways you're like the father I would have loved to have had—and you just can't appreciate…"

"…just grow a pair already. Can't you just tell me that you had sex with both of them—help _me _out for a change, help me get a little blood flow."

"….what I might be going through—all the memories and loathsome feelings this dredges up…" Alan had paused.

"I just want a little help getting an erection!" Denny said.

Alan paused, studying him then said placidly, "I'm afraid you're on your own there. Besides what about Joan? Surely she can help with that."

"She's always on business trips. I haven't seen her for almost a week now. And with the mad cow…when I try to maintain a fantasy long enough to…"

Alan threw up a hand, squeezed his shut and looked away with disgust. "Denny, please, don't continue with that thought. I do not want to carry around the image of you attempting to pleasure yourself. It might hinder my own ability to maintain."

"But then I forget what it was I was thinking about and I can't finish. I'm _blue_ Alan." Denny said, leaning on the arm of the chair.

Alan looked at him, concerned, "I don't think there's anything to be depressed about. Maybe you're just distracted."

"No, I mean I've got blue ball!"

Alan inhaled sharply. "Please let that be the one and only time you _ever_ tell me that Denny." Alan squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to thwart any unwanted images of Denny from popping into his head.

"What do I do, Alan?"

"There's videos, magazines, toys—a whole multi-billion dollar industry is dedicated to this very need, Denny. Which means, by the way, you aren't the only one who's…blue."

"I know, I know. But I've always relied upon a sharp mind, a creative and vivid imagination to carry me through. I can't stand the thought of losing that—especially if it's going to affect…" He looked down at his crotch, sadly. "Slugger."

Alan struggled to suppress a laugh. "You've named it slugger?"

Denny nodded innocently, sadly. "Do you have a name for yours?"

"No, Denny. I don't."

"What! You need to name it."

"Why?"

"It's like a car or a boat—it takes you to wonderful places, you form a relationship with it; it _has _to have a name."

Alan chuckled. "Perhaps. But I'm not going to name it. Can we stop talking about penises?"

"Fine." Denny sat back in his chair, puffing his cigar.

"Fine." Alan sipped his scotch.

After some silence Denny asked, "So what about Tara?"

"What about her?" Alan stared at the city skyline.

"Are you two going to get back together?"

Alan scoffed. "Why on earth…what would make you even _ask_ a question like that?"

Denny shrugged. "Man, you're grumpy tonight. You would think with all the backseat sex you've supposedly had, you would be in a better mood."

"I'm not grumpy. And nothing, nothing at all is going to happen with Tara." He puffed his cigar and sat, thinking. Then he added, "Don't get me wrong, I wish her well. I hope she's able to find someone who truly makes her happy." He said quietly, lifting his scotch glass to his lips, "I don't think I ever did, really."

"That's not true. Why else would she come back?"

"She's misremembering our past, I think. We did have some good times, but ultimately, we were not right for one another. She was right to leave me. We are just where we need to be—at least I know I am."

"Have you told Miranda?"

"No. I don't see any need for it. It would be different if I still felt something for Tara."

Denny turned to him. "You don't have any feelings for Tara at all?"

"Some, maybe, mostly along the lines of friendship and compassion. Hardly the stuff re-kindled flames are made of. No, what I've got with Miranda is just leagues beyond what Tara and I had. I loved Tara, she loved me, but we didn't quite fit. It's like when you're putting together a puzzle and the piece almost fits, it looks like it fits, but once you study it you realize that piece doesn't go there at all. With Miranda, she just _fits_—and there's no second-guessing, no questioning."

"Like me."

Alan nodded, smiling. "Like you."

A short silence drifted between them. They puffed their cigars, staring at the buildings glittering in the city lights.

"So where does Miranda stand now that she knows about our engagement and she's had some time to think? Is she going to break up with you?"

"I don't think so. She wants to just continue as we have been, as if nothing has happened—I assume until you and I actually get married."

"So she's not angry?" Denny looked at him, surprised.

"She doesn't seem to be."

"Hell of a woman." Denny gnawed on his cigar.

Alan released his smoke upward, watching it drift against the faint stars. "She is. Indeed she is, my friend."

Denny moved to the edge of his seat. "Once you and I get married we will be living together, right?"

"I assumed as much."

"Well, what about her?"

"What about her?"

"Where is she going to live?"

Alan hesitated. "I haven't really thought about it, but I suppose she would continue to live at her own house."

"What about sleeping arrangements?"

Alan faltered. "I assumed they would be pretty much as they are now. I would stay with you sometimes, with her other times—about half and half."

"And she's okay with that?"

"So far it doesn't seem to be a problem."

"Well, what if she came to live with us too?"

Alan stared at him. "Do you _want_ her to live with us?"

Denny shrugged. "I don't see why not. It would save a lot of hassle for you. Instead of bouncing between houses, you would just bounce between beds. All your stuff would be in one place. You wouldn't have to leave early in order to come home and get dressed for work; you'd get more sleep. I don't think you get enough sleep."

Alan wavered, shaking his head. "I don't know Denny. I'm not sure I'm ready to move in with her."

"You love her don't you?"

"I do. And that's why I'm hesitant to move in with her. When I start living with woman, things inevitably go sour."

"Why?"

"Because I start to feel confined and in an attempt to get some space for myself, I tend to withdraw. Women don't react well to that—they get anxious, resentful. I'm just not sure it's a good idea."

There was a brief silence. Alan sipped his scotch then Alan added. "Besides, there's you."

"What do you mean?"

"I would have to watch you constantly. You'd have her cornered before she got her key in the door. I'd never be able to leave the two of you alone for fear of having to bail you out or defend you in court."

"I'm not so sure about that. We'd be good."

He chuckled. "Yea, right." He puffed his cigar.

"Besides, she scares me a little."

Alan laughed. "I never thought I'd see the day that Denny Crane was afraid of a girl."

"She beat up that lawyer guy in North Carolina. She might beat me up."

Alan laughed again, "She might. I suppose, on second thought, if I were going to move a girl into the house with the two of us, Miranda would be the best choice. She'd be less likely to be cornered—no other woman could handle it."

Denny put his cigar between his teeth and said with a glitter in his eye, "She'd come out swinging."

"She would." Alan smiled proudly.

"Take no prisoners." Denny clutched his fist.

"Absolutely."

"I bet she was a Marine."

Alan laughed. "I don't think she ever served in the military, Denny."

Denny puffed his cigar. "It's fun to think about though. Ever see _G.I. Jane_?"

"No." Alan looked at him.

"That's a tough broad." Denny sipped his scotch. "So did you get a look at the lawyer she beat up?"

"I did. He was a mess: broken jaw, knocked out a couple of teeth, broken nose, stitches where his glasses cut his face, a dislocated shoulder and a couple of broken ribs."

"What a woman," Denny said proudly, gnawing his cigar. "She's a hell cat. I love it." He chuckled. "Love it."

"She can certainly take care of herself." Alan released his smoke.

"Until it comes to getting herself out of jail."

Alan laughed.

"If we sent her to law school she would be an absolute force to be reckoned with—a powerhouse. She could kick someone's ass and then get herself out of jail—and me too. Then you wouldn't have to get me out of jail so much. You could focus on your other cases."

"In-deed. Though I'm beginning to think she likes it that I get her out of jail."

"I know I do."

Alan looked at him.

Denny looked at the horizon. "Because then I know you care. Makes me feel…special."

Alan scoffed and chuckled. "You _are _special Denny Crane—very special indeed."

"Sleepover tonight?" Denny looked at him eagerly.

Alan chuckled and shook his head. "Not if you expect me to help you with your blues."

"Oh, come on. You're going to hold that against me?"

"I am," he nodded, puffing his cigar.

"Maybe you could tell me a story or something to…you know…help me out."

Alan said, laughing, shaking his head, "On no! Certainly not while you're doing _that_. No!"

"Just one story. You can tell me about your backseat sex."

"Absolutely not. Why is it all of our conversations always come around to your penis Denny?"

"They do not!"

"Yes, they do."

"Well, you don't want to talk about your penis."

"You're right. I don't." Alan puffed his cigar.

"So are you sleeping over or not?"

Alan wouldn't look at him. "Only on the condition that we talk about something other than penises for the rest of the night. One mention of it and I'm out the door."

"All right, all right." Denny scooted to the edge of his seat and said excitedly, "There's a John Wayne marathon on TV tonight—starting with _True Grit_. Want to watch that?"

"Will there be popcorn and s'mores?"

"Of course."

"Let's go."

They jumped up from their seats.

"I'm glad you're back," Denny said, slapping Alan on the back.

"Me too."


End file.
